Born of the Night
by Davo86
Summary: The fall of a blood elf into the path of the warlock.


BORNOFTHE NIGHT

A DARK CURIOSITY

HER SENSES WERE overflowing.

The red silken sheets flowed over the soft skin of her ankle as she writhed on the mattress. All across her lower half, the tangle of delicate cloth twisted around her undulating body, tightening its grip around her thigh as it slipped away from the small of her back.

She took a deep, shuddering breath to stop the muscles of her thighs from burning. The musky scent of copulating bodies filled the small chamber, so strong that it made the air thick. She felt she could snap her pearly teeth and bite a chunk of the excited static around her, settling rather for the nape of her lover's neck.

Blood was drawn, the body atop of her freezing in its timely motions to register the pain. She barely noticed as she lapped at the small wound with all the delicacy of a cat to a bowl of milk, her hungry mewling pushing its way between ecstatic sighs and languid groans of lust.

He spoke, although she barely registered what he had said. She though he called her a bitch, or a whore. Her palm whipped the side of his face in response and he rolled beneath her, lost somewhere between the sharp sting of the slap and the hedonistic heights of her body pressed to his.

Supple flesh melted against his chest, warm, scented breaths tickling across his cheek as she draw her teeth across his skin once more. She was made for this, he thought as he pushed his grimy hands across every contour of the woman's pale body. He barely remembered such a perfect heat in coupling, or such an alluring frame that screamed its fertility.

Shaking hands clasped into her thick, matted mane of ashen hair and pulled sharply, throttling her head skywards and arching her back. Sweat trickled down from her shoulder blades, every small ball sending electrifying jolts of sensation rippling down her spine.

Moments later she lay on her back again, panting and shivering in the sudden cold that rushed in between the absence of bodies. Her vision swam, the crimson hued room still spinning as her unbalanced chemicals struggled to right themselves. She reached to her stomach, feeling the warmth of mess coated there.

Her lips curled into the smallest of grins that soon faded when she realised that despite it all, she felt hollow and unfulfilled.

'Soraya.' A voice throbbed into her head like the heavy thump of a migraine. She closed her eyes. 'Soraya? Hello?'

She turned to the voice, her motions slow and lazy. 'What?' she blinked, trying to focus as she licked her fingers clean. There was no joy in that sensation, either. 'Is something wrong?'

'No, no,' he chuckled. He was handsome, with stark, lean features and eyes that glowed brightly. 'I'm merely curious as to what your husband would think of you,' he sounded pleased with himself. Soraya thought him a smug bastard. 'Filthy little lynx.'

'My husband,' she began, leaning over him to fix her gaze to his. She smiled sweetly before continuing, breathing in the scent of this lover one last time. 'My husband will be disappointed that when I go home, he'll have to hear how boring I found all this.' She watched his jaw slacken, and the confidence drain from his eyes. It pleased her infinitely more than the hour of lovemaking they had just shared. 'Goodnight, Athelas.'

He remained gobsmacked as he watched her leave, her bare form slipping from the room, trailing her robe behind her.

SHE HAD BEEN born of the night.

Over one hundred years ago, in the pitch blackness of midnight's shroud Soraya had entered the world; pale, naked and perfectly still. She did not respond to their voices, leaving both parents to fear her deaf where, in reality, she was just simply disinterested.

Her wide, blue eyes blinked away the gummy sheen that coated them and stared out into the darkness. She caught sight of her father and tiny lips formed some instinctual expression that filled his heart with joy.

In the darkness she was comfortable and in the years of her adult life to follow, she would remain a creature of the night.

MURDER ROW CAME to life in the early hours of the morning when the rest of Silvermoon slept. The long street was situated deep at the heart of the tranquil city, and Soraya had always found a certain symbolism that it was placed so. At the heart of her people was a shrouded pit of desire and like the thick drapes that criss-crossed high above the quiet Row, keeping it locked in a perpetual twilight, that desire was also hidden and seldom allowed to see the sun's beauty.

Soraya enjoyed her time in the Row, loathe as she was to admit it. Almost every building was a den of carnal desires, hidden pleasures and things unknown. She knew full well that beneath the almost silent exterior of the street's surface there was an abundance of life, and death, teaming around her. Actual murder was uncommon, but not unheard of. Rather, debase acts of violence were favoured and she recalled that on numerous occasions she had been forced to deal with the aftermaths. Blood Knights weren't welcome in the Row.

Most Blood Knights, anyway.

'Quite a show tonight, my little law keeper.'

She tried to suppress a shudder. The last thing she had wanted was to talk with her manager. The term wasn't technically accurate, but she refused outright to refer to him as an owner, which fitted the description of their tenuous relationship much better.

'It was no different from any other night,' she breathed in the cool night air, sparing no glances his way. 'If you're going to tell me they like it when I wear the tabard again, you can spare your breath.'

He chuckled, his grin thin and scheming. 'That temper is what puts you above the rest,' he dropped her earnings in a small pouch at her feet. She grit her teeth and she picked it up, feeling his eyes burn across her form. 'Do they recognise you?'

'Some.'

'And that doesn't worry you?'

Soraya grunted, letting him have his moment of smug satisfaction. She stepped onto the street, ready to make her way home.

It was eerily silent away from the quiet din of the bar. She could hear the distant, heavy thud of an arcane golem and the gentle flap of fabric as the purple drapes above her head fluttered. Everything around her enticed her to stay just a few moments more. There were other inns she could explore, pleasure houses or sanctums of taboo practices. Her skin prickled at the thought of what she could witness if only she let herself go. Perhaps she would not only witness it, but indulge and experience too.

She made her way across the street, stopping before a small building with thick, red drapes that covered the doorway. Thin slithers of purple smoke rose from beneath the curtains, losing themselves in the darkness of the open air. They tantalized her senses, reminding her all too clearly of the aphrodisiac she had been under less than an hour before, and the drug-induced haze she'd rutted in.

Her hand pressed to the heavy fabric, but that was as far as she dared go. She wet her lips and stayed still, listening as she tasted the air. There was pleasure down there, wherever the draped room lead to. She could hear the alluring sighs of coupling and practically feel the heat that burned from behind the dark partition.

Above it all, though, was a sense of dread. The hairs of her nape stood on end as she recognised the stench of fel magics. As if suddenly regaining her wits she knew below her were demons. She felt their presence as keenly as she felt a lover's stare.

What was worse was the sudden feeling that she belonged there_._

The thought pierced through her clarity with alarming force, so much so that it felt as if it were not even her own. She shook her head and stepped back from the archway. This hadn't been the first time she'd had such a thought, and with a thick sense of foreboding, she understood it wouldn't be the last.

THRACEN WAS JUST where Soraya had expected him to be. Stripped down to a thin, grubby undershirt and worn linen trousers, his calloused hands worked deep in the soil below the bedroom window. In the time she had been away in Outland the flowerbed there had been transformed into a perfectly woven masterpiece of colour and shape.

Many of the small flowers sported orange or yellow petals, their shades varying from the deepest on the outside until the most pale and beautiful of plants were left in the centre of it all. It reminded Soraya of a sunset of sorts, and her heart rose to see such a thing of simple beauty.

Her husband had a true gift of creativity and an eye for perfect detail. It was something which she envied him for and she had told him as much. He would ease her insecurities with kind words, all of which were truthful. She was a creative being in her own right, but her expression of such thing was a world apart from the delicate gardening or woodwork of her lover and she often failed to see it despite herself. Where he carved things of lasting beauty, she crafted loving scenarios and pieced together an innocent sweetness of phrases that he only dreamed he could reflect upon her.

She crept upon him quietly, the soft grass beneath her bare feet barely making a sound. Her footfalls were slow and delicate, her breathing shallow. It was only when she was kneeling beside him that his mind was torn away from his work and he realised he was no longer alone.

'Hello.' There was a mild irritation at being disturbed in his voice. It eased away with his smile as he turned to face his lover.

'Hello,' she returned, planting a kiss to his lips. 'Do we have a Jianna today?'

'We do,' Thracen nodded, immediately busying himself with pulling up the blades of grass that were longer than the rest. 'She's sleeping on the bed, tired from the trip from her mother's.'

Soraya stood and peered through the open window into the circular bedroom. Just as told, there lay Jianna in the middle of her bed. Her small body was curled in on itself, wrapped around a small wooden figurine of a Lynx. 'Does she know I'm home?' Soraya asked.

Thracen shook his head as he got to his feet.

'I'll surprise her when she wakes, then.'

The pair stepped closer, meeting in a long overdue embrace. With a few, fleeting visits to home over the five month campaign to Outland, Soraya barely had the time to spend with Thracen as she would have wished. She near damned herself for once again choosing the soldier's life rather that settling down as she should. To make things worse, she had let her dancing be a priority upon returning home. He would understand her position, she was sure. She simply couldn't just leave that work behind.

A quiet sigh fell against his chest. She was here now, and that was what mattered. She would make amends for the weeks that had gone past with barely a night spent between them.

Soraya tensed into the embrace, feeling a sad truth trickle into her senses_._ As much as she loved Thracen, and as much as she was grateful to him for the life and the family he provided, she wasn't meant for a life like this. Soon enough, it would be too mundane.

It was a dangerous truth, and like the night in Murder Row she felt, somehow that it had been surfaced against her own volition. She shook her head an ignored it, willing her mind to be silent.

'I smell another on your skin, little goddess.' Thracen's words were mumbled against her shoulder.

'Work, my love,' she replied, the embers of excitement flickering beneath her breast.

'Did he please you?' He clenched her tighter, his desires enflamed with the thought of his lover, his wife, with another.

For a short while, he had. Or perhaps it was the aphrodisiac. 'I was bored.'

'Bored?'

She nodded against him and pressed her full lips to his jaw, determined not to lose the moment to his disappointment.

'He must have been a poor lover to bore you, little goddess.'

'He was,' she lied. Athelas had been fine as a lover. He wasn't particularly skilled and he lacked the passion that she felt between herself and Thracen but for her to literally be bored by him seemed obscene. Yet bored she was and her mind itched to remedy that. She had bitten him, hit him, tasted his coppery blood. What more need she do? 'It doesn't matter,' she lied again. 'These things happen.'

Thracen raised her chin on his knuckles and kissed the tip of her mouse-like nose. 'Go and wake Jianna. She'll be pleased to see you.'

Soraya grinned. 'If she's anything like me, she won't be pleased to see anyone who wakes her from a nap.'

THE ROOM WAS illuminated with the faintest of green glows that came from Soraya's open eyes. The dim light was enough to give the slightest of outlines to the human eye. For her elven physiology, however, it was enough that she could see the far end of her bedroom in all the detail of daytime, except now everything was a grey and colourless.

Sometime during the night Jianna had slipped into the room and nuzzled herself between Soraya and Thracen, her small head now pressed against her father's chest where a thin sheen of drool seeped onto his bedshirt. Jianna's intrusion had been enough to stir Soraya from her sleep, although she had pretended otherwise.

Soraya didn't want to be a mother and it was time like these that her brooding nature was pushed aside. Being woken in the middle of the night annoyed her more than it did fill her with sympathy for the young girl. She was vaguely guilty over such thoughts, but she was young and the pressures of motherhood, of Thracen's past life, shouldn't always have been hers to bear.

Was she young?

The thought had plagued her ever since the Illidari had questioned her blood.

"_If you are not half-blooded, then... I would be surprised. You are everything that is beautiful in such a union."_

His words riled her; still enough flush her cheeks with the thought, the embarrassment, that her mother would ever do such a thing. She was sure Daroven didn't understand the insult, worded as it was into a compliment. In his eye, truly it had been. In hers, however, there was not much worse to be said.

Between them it had turned into little more than friendly banter. Most of the time Soraya allowed herself to look over the unintended insult and trust that there was nothing malicious in the Illidari's words. Rather, she would strike back at the traitor-whoreson and they would goad one another on and on.

Yet still, in the dark recesses of the night, the very concept lingered around her, heavy and choking. The implications of its truth, ridiculous as that was, were terrifying.

Was she young?

Once Daroven had left her that night, she'd had time to think. If she were of half-blood, a perfect mix of human and elf, she was, to the best of her knowledge, at the middle-point of her life. As a trueblood, bred pure and without human taint she was only a young adult. This… this changed everything.

It was there, after a hundred and eighteen years of life that Soraya realised her own mortality. It came upon her like a crushing wave that wanted to suck her into the depths of the blackest ocean. Realising, truly, that she would one day simply end filled her with the greatest dread. All that she had come to enjoy and love would be meaningless, her very consciousness ripped into oblivion. She felt suffocated. A part of her innocence had died that night.

Soraya slipped from the bed, quiet and careful not to wake the others. The cold kiss of night touched her skin and she reached quickly for a night robe. Every curve of her body was soon covered, her lips twisted at the blessing and curse of her figure. It was the cause of every doubt and worry the Illidari had planted into her head.

She left the house without as much as a whisper of sound. A mile or so to the north stood one of many unmarked graves of Eversong, erected for those thousands who fell to the scourge.

Her skyward glance only saw the foliage of autumn-leaved trees but from the stillness of the air she knew she walked within the early hours of the morning. She could see the great spires of the city tease their way between the thick treetops and a hundred yards or so to her right, the faint blue glows of arcane light that guided the path from Fairbreeze.

The grave was a small, elegant sprout of marble, crested with a red circle which sported golden lining, thicker on the topside. Notes had been left beneath small pebbles and the strips of parchment flapped wildly as they tried to escape with the wind.

Soraya didn't quite know why she had come here. She was sure that both her parents were alive, somewhere. It had simply become a matter of habit that she would come here to speak to them. A tiny slither of breath passed her lips, a quiet laugh at her own stupidity. There was no talking to be done besides speaking at marble.

'Mother,' her words were barely a whisper and she stood silent again. This was stupid.

What was more stupid was the rush of vertigo that threatened to overwhelm her as she realised she had no desire to be remembered like this. Never did she want to be reduced someone's memory, a slab of carved marble all that remained that she ever was.

No. Soraya would do something about it, if she could.

'Mother,' she breathed again. 'Why have you done this to me?'

WHAT WAS WORST was that she had ignored a summons to come here. Or, perhaps, that was what was best about the choice.

The Scryers had requested her presence alongside a representative of House Valantir. Another "thank you" she had assumed, and she had no time for such things. It could even be worse; a request for another campaign, another battle which she had no desire to fight. The whole thing required too much pomp and she knew that whatever happened, she would be embroiled in the scheming politics of both sides for hours on end. The very thought made her head hurt.

Her freedom had been all but stripped away from her in the past months. She worked on the whims of those superior to her in rank and class and even in her spare moments she felt chained to those things which she had obligations to do.

No more, she had decided.

Soraya stood at the same draped entrance that had tempted her to touch four nights past. Her hair hung free down her back, framing her face perfectly on either side. She allowed some of the thick mane to fall across her shoulder, leading the eye with purpose to the rise of her breasts.

The dress she wore hung on her shoulders, joined behind her neck. The neckline plummeted down to her naval, displaying the paleness of skin below that stood in contrast to the blood-like hue of the translucent fabric.

Even if her visit proved fruitless, she would not be forgotten by any inside the shady grotto.

She held her breath, fighting back the nagging feeling that this was somehow wrong. Surely it was never wrong to indulge one's curiosities. It was worse to live an unfulfilled life; to spend every waking moment fighting off boredom.

Soraya hungered for more. She lusted after greater things.

Her heart beat fasted beneath her pale breast. She pushed the curtain aside and entered.

SANCTUM

THERE WAS NOTHING beyond the veil except darkness. Soraya could make out the shape of the room, small as it was. It was entirely empty. There were no furnishings of any sort and certainly no elves anywhere in sight. For a short while she considered turning back away, but the murmur of voices told drew her on. There was more to witness, only if she could discover where to find it.

The smoke that had been rolling beneath the drape into the outside air was thick on the floor. It wisped and caressed her ankles as she took gentle strides towards the centre of the chamber. Soraya glanced down, watching the flow of purplish mist. She traced its path to the point of origin, seeing that apparently it stemmed from a solid stone wall. That, she knew, was madness.

She drifted further through the room, stepping closer to the mist-spouting wall. With a delicate kick of her foot, Soraya sent the smoke rolling backwards on itself, building in a small plume that she had half expected to crash against the stonework. When it drifted through, leaving nothing but a small ripple in its wake, she hardly felt as surprised as she should have been.

'Simple trickery,' she grinned to herself, pleased to have not been fooled.

The voices continued, still too muffled to make out anything they were saying. For all Soraya imagined they may well have been speaking a different language entirely, the tone of their words harsh and flat compared to the rolling pleasantries of Thalassian dialect.

Soraya placed her hand against the illusion of a wall. Rather, she placed her palm as close to it as possible without slipping through. She curled her fingers, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of a million cold prickles across her skin as they seeped into the illusion. It made her uncomfortable enough to step through unceremoniously, almost stumbling out of the other side. She shuddered, her skin flushing with pins-and-needles as her blood flushed to make her warm once more. In that moment she wished she had worn a robe that wasn't so thin as to show her flesh beneath.

Beyond the fake wall was what remained of the true chamber. Smaller than before and still without furnishings, Soraya was still waiting to be impressed. Nevertheless, at least this room had a way out; a spiral staircase leading from which purple mist churned. What she could see of the walls was lit faintly in the orange light of flame, the shadows of the golden banister flickering with every lick of fire.

The talking had become clear beyond the veil of the illusion. She could pick out conversations now, male and female voices, around five people in total. It was still hard to gauge what they were saying, some of the dialect clear Thalassian whereas some – a female voice in particular – was talking in a language she couldn't place. It sounded foul to her ears.

Soraya stood beside what little there was of a banister overlooking the deep stairwell and peered with care over its edge. There was no one she could see on the circling stairs. The rolling purple mist was absent, and she couldn't reconcile how on Azeroth that was at all possible.

Magic, she thought to herself, always some twist of magic.

The only thing left to do was to make her way down, yet she remained hesitant, lingering at the top of the stairs like a lost child. It was difficult to shake the inhibitions that were building up with every step further she took into the dark building. Something felt wrong. Something she couldn't quite place was screaming at her in the far recesses of her mind that she shouldn't be in this place. Her curiosity, however, was the stronger feeling by far. Soraya had spent too many months of her long life denying herself the indulgence and pleasures she deserved. The very fact there was a wrongness to this place fuelled the thought that whatever lay at the bottom of the stairwell, it was something worth investing her time in. Whatever it was, it was taboo. In its very nature, there must be pleasure, however perverse.

Like an assassin in the dark she slowly crept down the staircase, her right hand trailing across the wall to keep her steady as she drifted ever lower into the building. It wasn't far to the lower floor, and a trip that would have taken mere seconds of her time was extended to just under a minute through her sneaking, cautious steps. The talking had stopped, although she didn't quite realise when. Whoever was below must have seen her feet long before she ever had a chance to dip her head and take a look into the chamber below.

When she did, she froze on the stairway, making sure her glowing eyes took in every detail of the room she would soon find herself standing in, for better or worse.

It was lit with candles and flame braziers. Hundreds of the small flames flickered on tables or on tall, think candle stands. Wax melted and dripped from their edges, making small solid limps of red or white on the floor beneath. In some cases, the wax had solidified as it dropped leaving delicate strands joining the floor and furniture together.

The décor was rich and fine, like the inside of a noble's bedchamber. Whereas Soraya had seen such furnishings imitated in poor taste too many times in Murder Row, down here in this secret chamber, there was all the expensive finery she would come to expect of a prince. Plush cushions and soft-furred rugs spread across the black marble floor. Amongst the candles on small tables, books piled high, some twisting endlessly on arcane bookshelves that floated and spun on the spot. There were countless vials of coloured liquid, some frothing, bubbling and spewing thin trails of smoke into the air. She sniffed and licked her lips. The stench of fel magic teased her senses. It was only gentle, but enough for one such as her who knew it all too well.

Thick, mauve drapes that were lined along the bottom with shimmering golden thread separated the larger segment of the room from her view. She could see through their translucent hue, but only shadows of what lay beyond caught her eye. More candles flickered back there, and she could faintly make out the shapes of people moving. After a while they fell still, pairing off and talking. She drew a sharp breath as she felt certain a head turned her way. When the figure walked her way, there was no doubt at all she had been noticed.

She held her breath, willing her heart to be still. It was like telling the Elrendar to stop flowing, for all the good it did her. The curtains parted, and the figure of a male stepped through. He wasn't smiling.

TALRIS DAWNREACH WAS not as young as he appeared. In fact, he was many hundreds of years older than the age which he chose to present himself. He had been coming close to the end of his natural life at the dawn of the Third War and such a close brush with death, quite literally, had made him seek unnatural ways to extend what little life he had left. If Talris realised anything as the world burned around him, it was that he had no desire to burn with it.

He realised, as the voluptuous woman made her way tentatively towards him, that he was at the very least three generations her superior; old enough to be her great grandfather, at the very least. It pleased him to know that if he wished, he could still mate her. He enjoyed the tender flesh of the young and fertile.

The presence beside him didn't share his enthusiasm. In fact, she had been whispering obscenities into his ear ever since she had broken through the illusion on the upper floor.

Sarissa hid in the veil between realities, invisible to the naked eye. She had been Talris' succubus minion for some years now, although she perceived, quite correctly, that it was he who was firmly beneath her heel. This newcomer was trouble and from the very moment she had caught a whiff of her presence, she had hated her, and made no small show of hiding the fact to her master.

_Hated, hated, hated._

Sarissa spoke into Talris' mind, her words thick with venomous disgust.

+ She should not be here. +

+ She shouldn't. But I will see what her business is. +

+ You will not seed her! +

Talris fought off a chuckle. Sarissa knew him too well, and oh, how her jealousy stung. It was exceedingly difficult not to wish to bed the stranger who had entered his sanctum. She was dressed to please.

Her robe was bordering on the scandalous, with almost more skin showing than cloth. What little fabric did cover her body was carefully placed to accentuate every curve she possessed – and she possessed many. The red material was thin enough to appear translucent, folded back on itself around the neckline that plunging neckline to hide the most private areas of her pale breasts. It split around her legs, leaving them bare as she walked. Even standing still, the stranger struck an alluring figure. The only thing more difficult that not wishing to bed her was not letting it show on his face.

'Are you lost, my dear?' Talris asked, forming his voice into the soft tone of a schoolteacher.

'Perhaps,' she replied, her own tone giving away nothing of any anxiety. 'Can a girl not be curious?'

Sarissa seethed behind Talris' back. The woman was oblivious to her existence, but still managed to make the succubus uncomfortable. She pressed herself against her master, wrapping her warm arm around his neck as she peered over his shoulder. She hissed as her eyes caught sight of just one of many reasons she hated this woman.

+ She is warded. She pains me, and she knows not what she does. +

+ What? +

Talris gave himself a moment to reassess the stranger's figure. Perhaps he'd spent too long being enticed and not seen the danger she may possess. 'Of course you may,' he answered the woman. 'But there is little of interest to you here, I'm sure, miss…?'

He saw nothing unusual.

'Soraya Skydancer.'

'My name is Talris.' He bowed low in formal greeting. Soraya curtsied, or rather, made a rather awkward attempt at a curtsey. Here was a girl quite unused to such things, Talris thought.

+ She is inked, you blind fool. + Sarissa's voice in his head sounded more agitated than ever.

+ Oh her thigh, yes. That is no warding tattoo. +

+ On her breast! +

Surely enough, there it was. Most of the inking was hidden by the fabric she wore, no doubt a circular tattoo as the ward would require. What small segment of an arc Talris could see was close to skin tone, a slightly darker hue of her natural complexion as if the inking had been tanned onto her. It was similar to the pattern that rested on her thigh, but whereas that was mostly decorative (for all he could tell, at least) this tattoo had purpose. It was written in a runic language that he would be impressed if she even understood what it said.

The words were of ancient form, long before the sundering of the world. What Talris could see read:

'… _from daemon's grasp. Cast into the night …'_

Demon warding, indeed.

+ Get her out. + Sarissa nagged him again.

'Since you're here, Miss Skydancer, is there anything I can do for you?'

Sarissa screeched into his brain. It was hard not to wince.

Soraya stood confidently, more at ease now than when she had first been caught entering his sanctum. She trailed the tips of her finger across a table's edge, brushing across a few leaves of parchment that sat there. 'I just wanted to know what happens down here. I couldn't resist entering as I passed any longer.' Her lips curled into a devious smile that Talris found a little too infectious.

+ Talris! +

+ Be silent, Sarissa. I will remedy this. +

The succubus slinked away from him, lingering in her concealed realm, letting her eyes burn on the threat of a woman.

_Scum. Demon-killer. Whore._

Talris smiled at the newcomer. 'It is a private gathering of acquaintances. We indulge our needs, there's no need to hide that,' his arms gestured wide, 'I'm sure you can smell it on the air.'

'The drugs. The after-scent of coupling. The fel. Yes.' Soraya seemed unfazed.

Talris cringed at the latter. 'You must understand, not everyone find it easy to state their needs on more trivial things. Not after such exposure to potent forces.'

'I understand.'

'You're a Blood Knight, are you not?' Talris felt Sarissa freeze up and saw her frustrated padding stop. She unfurled a whip as if from nowhere, her dangerous glare narrowing impossibly at Soraya.

The Blood Knight finally showed some discomfort. 'How did you…?'

'First, I noticed your demon ward. Only those who combat the agents of the Burning Legion would have any need for such a thing. From there I've been piecing you together as we spoke, Soraya. You hold yourself like someone who has been taught their posture. You're not naturally of the noble caste, its military conditioning. Your skin, beautiful as it is, has the odd blemish of a scar here and there – although you hide them well. What's more you have just enough tone, especially in that stomach you're kindly showing me, to suggest you exercise regularly. Also, your nails are cut, or bitten, short. You need to wear gloves often and you can't grow them long for practicality's sake. Your left hand also has a tendency to linger at your hip, as if resting on the pommel of a blade. Is that enough?'

Talris kept the kindly smile on his face as he watched her piece together his observations. How she reacted next would be the key to whether or not she came out of this little meeting alive.

SORAYA CONSIDERED LYING. It didn't necessarily follow that she was a Blood Knight, or a law keeper of any sorts. Even the truth of the matter was surely not what Talris had imagined; her days of patrolling the city for criminals were long over.

'I'm not here as a Knight,' she confessed, her voice low and as soothing as she could make it without being condescending. 'Although, yes, it is my profession. A combatant, as the ward suggests,' she placed her hand upon her inked breast, 'I'm not here to cause trouble.'

Talris remained quiet and still for a duration of halting heartbeats. Soraya wet her lips, feeling suddenly small and somehow dangerously out of her depth. Sarissa paced behind her, fighting back the uneasy pain that came from being so close to the warded female. She reared her whip, but backed away as she caught a glare from her master.

'Your desire to explore must be strong, Soraya.' Talris commented eventually. 'Our illusion on the upper floor, simple as it may be, is often enough to make most think they've stumbled upon nothing.'

'And what of those who it doesn't fool, like me?'

Talris showed his teeth in a wicked smile. 'Each case differs.'

'If I may be so bold?' Soraya ventured, taking a small step forwards to close the gap between herself and the robed elf. There was no better way to defuse tension than to take the lead and throw people off guard. She pulled a leaf of parchment from the table as she went, feeling her skin crawl as she held it in her hand. She dared not look what was on it. 'You haven't told me the entire truth, either.'

The old elf tensed as Soraya pushed the parchment to his chest. He could smell her scent strongly and it was intoxicating. It took all of his restraint not to clasp his hands around her and hold her close. Oh, how he longed to feel her warmth. If it wasn't for Sarissa's incessant '_whore, whore, whore!' _ringing between his ears, he was sure he would have.

+ Touch her and die. + The demon finished off, her beautiful features drawn into an angry, terrifying mask of hatred.

Talris stepped away uneasily, glancing to the scroll he had been handed.

'We study, also. It's nothing sinister.'

'Then may I?'

Talris cocked his head. 'May you what?'

+ Do not indulge the fleshy whore! +

'May I study, too? As a sign that I'm truly interested in what this place has to offer.'

Sarissa had reached the end of her patience. She spat a torrent of demonic curses at her master before fading into the void.

For a moment, the young features of Talris' face contorted into a vile grin. The elation was too much to control. This chance, this rare chance to take a girl so naïve and twist her. It would be a glorious fall to watch and an even more glorious ascendance as she realised her potential. This Soraya Skydancer brimmed with a hunger for more. Even if she didn't know where it would eventually lead her, Talris was certain the night would take her.

He turned away, fumbling across a small tome, and for the briefest instant the ugly countenance of his true visage showed through. The taught skin across his cheeks slackened and wrinkled, turning so thin and pale that the blue veins climbed up from his neck like vines. He took a breath to compose himself and felt the mask return before turning back to the curious woman, who was tapping her fingernail against the side of a small vial with an infuriating _ting, ting, ting, ting. _

'Please stop that.'

She did. 'Sorry.'

'Study the first chapter of this book,' he handed the tomb to her, a shiver passing his spine as he watched her crush it protectively to her breasts. 'You will be permitted to return within a week. If you understood the text, we will see what happens from there.'

Soraya grinned and nodded. 'What is it about?'

'The basics of the arcane. Nothing taxing.'

Not to you, perhaps, Soraya thought. 'Of course not,' she said. There was a pause. 'It won't go further than the arcane, will it?'

'We only indulge in fel as a narcotic, as did we all in times gone by.' Talris smiled reassuringly. 'Worry not, Miss Skydancer. There's no foul play here.'

Talris took her by the shoulder and turned her back to the stairway.

'One week?' she asked.

He nodded. 'One week.'

THE OTHERS CAME from behind the drape once Soraya had left, their curiosity at the evening's events too much to be left unattended.

'What was all that about?' asked a pale woman with exceptionally drawn, gaunt features. By all standards of the word, she looked ill.

'That, my dear Annaria, will be a regular to the Sanctum soon enough.'

Annaria snorted, scratching her arm viciously enough to draw blood. Her fel green eyes washed over Talris with disinterest. 'You just wish to mate with her.'

'Why does everyone assume that?' Talris feigned being hurt.

'Because Sarissa is usually right.'

Talris grinned wryly. Yes, Sarissa. He'd have to get back in her good books after tonight's little disagreement. He reached his mind into the nether, searching her out of the thousands of tormented demon souls that lived there. A night's pleasures should ease her jealous pain.


End file.
